My Son, I Am Dying
by SarahSimon
Summary: Iroh looks back at his life as he lies on his deathbed.


**MY SON, I AM DYING**

* * *

_My son, I am dying . . ._

* * *

Iroh's childhood, full of tea and laughter and innocence. His mother, Ilah, the beautiful and perfect porcelain doll of a noblewoman. The perfect picture of the Fire Lady. His father, cold and distant. The birth of his brother, Ozai, and the way he quickly grows up. The child Ozai was, as compared to the man he is today. The little noblewoman always with Ozai, and how Iroh and she quickly become friends. The best of friends. Friends that tell each other everything. Their late-night conversations, the way she confides that she knows her parents want her to marry Ozai. Her apprehension. His confidence and assurances that _everything will be okay, you have nothing to fear, there's still a long time until you're marrying age. _The memories that stick out, like fragmented shards of a mirror, instead of a smooth and continuous timeline. The things he can't remember, looking back, but the things that he can, people and memories and places, lighting the dark recesses of his happy childhood, lighting it up like candles.

* * *

Her delicate air, her mussed black hair, her bare feet, the scent of Ginseng, hanging around her. Ruka. The way she talks, the way her hands fold together in that noblewomen manner, but the way she is when they are alone, they way she lays under the stars, and the way he sneaks into her room late at night, just to hear her voice and listen to her breathe, just to be with her, to be together. Their forbidden romance, the expectations of courtesy and propriety, the way neither of them care when they are together. The declarations, the promises, the questions.

_Ruka, you must think I'm mad, but I think I want to marry you._

_If you are mad, then we will be mad together. _

The kisses, the tears, the hopes, the laughter, the long years they were supposed to spend together, years of happiness and joy. His father, taking notice to the little black-haired girl who spends so much time in his court. The betrothal, arranged, both pretending it was some sacrifice, some martyrdom, some outrage that they would have to marry.

And the sneaking into her room, when the fake tears have subsided, to lay in her bed, to be next to her, full of confidence and hope and optimism about their future that lies ahead.

* * *

That black pride in his heart when he was declared a Master. Thoughts of how he could use that power, how he could use this authority, how he could use those things to meld the people around him and make them yield to his might. The dual nature of his character, how he was tender and loving to Ruka, but the ferocity with which he fought and the savagery with which he clawed his way to the top, growing stronger and stronger each day. The flame, pinned into his topknot, signifying his true Mastery, and the golden robes let down onto his body. His father, staring at him, a strange pride in his eyes. The way Ozai looked at him, envy written all over his expression, but the unshakable confidence that he was the Crown Prince, that he could never be toppled, that he could never be _defeated_.

* * *

The feeling of pride again, that awful pride, as his father paces behind him in the Fire Room, his hands clasped behind his back, his mustache graying, the flames flickering. The shadows cast on the wall as the words ring out before him. _You will_ _be famous, my son._

_Yes, my Lord?_

_I have new plans for an invasion of the Earth Kingdom. This is a serious task, one I trust to no one but the most skilled, the most competent. You will be General Iroh, leader of the Fire Nation Army, and the man who brought Ba Sing Se to her knees!_

The visions of what could be, of Ba Sing Se burning, of the Earth Kingdom peasants, beaten and subjugated, of him, glorious and supreme, of making his father proud, of giving Ruka the huband she'd always deserved, of himself, being victorious.

Breathless words, hurried words. _How soon would I depart?_

The chuckle. _You must first become skilled as a general in your own right. You will lead my troops, but the siege will come years from now. _His bowed head, his sense of disappointment.

His father's sense of his son's desire to speak, his father's chuckle, his father's words. _Patience is indeed a virtue. There are many troops to be amassed, weapons to be produced, strategies to be developed. These things take time—but we must not rush, nor can we unnecessarily delay. If we act decisively, the world will remember this siege—the Siege of Ba Sing Se. The greatest siege the world has ever seen!_

_But we must wait._

_Yes, my son. We must wait._

His rushed footsteps, hurrying out of the room, the muttered deferences, the sloppy bow. The words, calling after him—_after all, my son, you still have to get married, don't you?_

* * *

In she walks. Ruka, as she walks through the procession in the Fire Nation palace, her hair in the traditional wedding style, the flame hairpiece in her curls. Her blushed face, her delicate lips, her red dress. Him, waiting for her, hair combed back, flame in his topknot, and love, tender and large in his heart.

The ceremony, the hand-fasting, the flames of all colors, swirling around them, as she and him are united as one couple, one unit, and the look of tenderness on her face as she looks up at him, his new wife. Ozai's laughter and Ursa's soft smile as they watch them dance—for Ursa knows what's coming to her soon, and Iroh is no fool to Ursa's reluctance. But those things are passing and small in the light of the great happiness now before him, embodied in the form of that small black-haired woman, dancing with him.

His whispered words, and how soft she was as they retreat to their new quarters, their _own_ new quarters, together. Her trust as they go to bed together, nothing to fear, the world theirs for the taking, trust in their movements and actions and whispers, and their tired sleep, finally, together.

* * *

Ruka's screams as she pushes, her swollen stomach, the way she heaves and seizes his hands, the way the nurses gather around her. Her black hair, sweaty and sticking to her forehead, her back as it arches into the sky, her curves, his fear. _Push, my lady. You have to push. _Her screams. The blood.

And then, light, and hope, and his child. The way everyone scurries around him and his child, and how Ruka goes forgotten. The proclamation. _It's a boy! _And the shouts of joy, and delight. His sense of wonder and the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes as his son grabs his beard with chubby fingers, because he is seeing in vivid Technicolor, and before, he was seeing in black and white.

And how Ruka wants to see her son, but how she never will, because she's lying on the mattress, soaked in her own sweat and blood, a trace of sticky tears on her face. The way everything turns slow and groggy as Iroh looks over, and sees that she isn't moving, isn't talking, isn't smiling.

His horror, his bile rising in his throat, the cries of his son, the way the morning turns dark and the palace weeps for the loss of its beauty, its Princess, its inner light. The scurrying maids as physicians crawl into the room, the way people move around him and life goes on and people talk and cry and feel, and all Iroh can do is just sit there in the infirmary, just sit there _blankly while people feel things, _because he's lost his beauty, his Princess, his inner light. And someone at some point takes away the baby, takes away the only thing he has left of her, but he doesn't feel a damn thing because Ruka is gone, and how can life go on when she is dead? How can the world go on spinning, and life keep on going when she is gone?

And the only people to think of him, Ursa and Ozai. Ozai's face, a revolting mixture of grief, pity, and disgust. Ursa's tears as she falls to the ground with him, her arms wrapping around him, how she cries into his beard and suddenly he can feel again, and he's crying too, because it hurts so much to feel, and he almost wants to be numb again. His deep, unsteady breaths, the hot tears on his cheeks, the way he wants Lu Ten with him now, the taste of salt in his mouth. It hurts so much to care, to experience emotion, to want things and to desire something, so deeply. To want something back, to want Ruka back, more than he himself wants to live.

Because it just hurt so much to feel.

* * *

The way Lu Ten grew so quickly, in the times he could see him, in between wars and skirmishes and battles. The way he looks up at him, the way his eyes are shaped exactly like Ruka's, and how his Firebending is growing so strong. The sense of wonder in those ten-year-old eyes, when he holds his baby cousin, Zuko, in his arms.

The way he grows up, so fast, so strong. And the way that Zuko grows up, too. Lu Ten teaching Zuko about sword-fighting, how Zuko looks up to Lu Ten, idolizes him. And Lu Ten's first battle, his sneaking out after his curfew to woo the ladies, his first conscription notice, his assurances that he'll be fine.

_I love you so much, Father. I'll be back soon. _His hesitation. _I hope I make you proud._

The tears that come, inexplicably, to his eyes. _You always make me proud, my son. I will see you soon._

_Goodbye, Father. _The way he shoulders his pack, the way he walks away, his shoulders tall and proud, just eighteen years old, heading to the Army, making his father (and his nation) proud.

* * *

The Fire Nation infantry, two years later, their flames and metal and steel and weapons, their shouts and cold calculation. Him, standing at the front, calling orders, calmly watching the battle laying out before him. Power and adrenaline, the taste of victory sweet on his tongue. The surrounding of the walls, the way the Earthbenders fight back. The long stretches of days, of fighting and fighting, of waiting for some sign of hope, of sieging the great city. The 600 days of blood and tears and sweat.

And the moment when the wall comes crumbling down, when the Fire Nation infantry breaks through. His smile, the way he clasps his son's arm, standing next to him. The hesitation in the way Lu Ten looks at him, the concerns his son voices, the way he tells him that what they are doing is not right, that maybe the Fire Nation should stop. His horror at the treasons and betrayals his son is speaking, and the way he pushes him away, disgusted in his thoughts and concerns, disgusted that the future Fire Lord has such treacherous thoughts.

His challenge, to his son.

The way his son walks away, his shoulders hunched and beaten, the way he walks into the fray as the infantry battles onward through the agrarian zone. The way Iroh looks away, ashamed to see how hard his son fights for his father's approval, his father's pride, ashamed that his son would think those traitorous thoughts, ashamed to call Lu Ten his son.

* * *

The news.

The news that Lu Ten is gone.

His shock, his fear, his rage and regret and guilt and anger and blame and self-loathing and hatred.

_Call off the siege._

_My lord? What are—_

_I said, call off the siege!_ His breath, his heart, his fear, loud and painful in his ears._ It's over. I will not go on._

_A-as you wish, my lord._

The assured shock and confusion in the Fire Palace, the celebrations in the Earth Kingdom, the laughter and jeers and response to his failure, his weakness. And his apathy to it all. Because one more soldier lost was too many, for everyone must feel this way, when they lose a son in the war. So one more soldier lost was one too many, because he wouldn't be responsible for this pain and suffering in anyone else.

And his words, echoing back to him. Saying that Lu Ten had failed him, that he was a traitor, that if he wanted to prove himself, he would fight for his nation and fight for their pride. His son, making him proud. His son, fighting in the war. His son, lying on the battlefield, a beautiful rosy red blossoming on his chest and the grimace on his face. His son, dead.

His running, running to the hill with the tree on it, the soldiers looking on in amazement as their general runs through the rain with tears on his face, runs from the loss and runs from the memories. The way he looked upward at the rain, his hoarse throat, the coldness seeping down to his bones. His screams at the sky, as the Fire Nation retreats and folds into itself, running away from the loss and the death.

_Will this loss ever stop? Why, Agni?_ Memories of Ruka, her red lips and black hair, her, cold and dead in the infirmary that should have been a place of life, of Lu Ten coming into the world._ Why must you take everyone away from me? _The rain on his face. His blindness, the darkness, the guilt and regret, threatening to drown him and take him under. _Why?_

* * *

His failed venture into the Spirit World, his bending failing him, how he searches and searches the Spirit World for his son but doesn't find him, how the spirits laugh him and mock him, mock his sentimentality and need, desire to find his son. How he'll never view the real world the same way, how he will always see spirits around him, how he will be haunted by the things he's seen. The overwhelming, undefeatable, controlling, compelling, catastrophic sense of failure. Always, always with him. Forever.

* * *

His loss of the throne, and the surprising realization that he doesn't care, not one bit. He no longer wishes for power or influence, rather for happiness, and peace. And those things don't come easily to a Fire Lord. Ozai's newfound sense of confidence and deceit, and stealth. His laughter, his throne, his grim and delighted expression. Ursa's disappearance, the only thing about the situation he truly cares about, and the rumors of her treacherous actions to save her son.

He too would have done treacherous things.

To save his son.

* * *

His Firebending, weak and pathetic, having lost his sense of rage and determination. The destination, the journey, the goal—to slay the last Dragon. The way he didn't care, his refusal to even try. His seeking to improve his Firebending, the ancient civilization, the mountain, the Sun Warriors, their chanting and fire and passion. The steps, the climb, the way his joints protested every step.

And the dragons.

Their flames, their roar, the way they stared at him and judged him. The irony of it all. His falling to his knees, the fear in his heart, the way he pleaded to be spared, for them to understand that he _wasn't that person anymore. _Their fire, blue and red and green and purple and yellow and orange, swirling around him, surrounding him with its warmth and joy. His understanding.

His arrival back in the Fire Palace. The questions, the begging for stories, the incessant inquiries. His lies—that he had killed the last Dragon. His new title—Dragon of the West. His new, more powerful Firebending. Him, a changed man, a man who understands his place in the world, and did not seek to change it. Dragon of the West—indeed.

* * *

Zuko, kneeling on the ground, his face turned upward, tears streaming down his face. _You will learn respect. _The horror in Zuko's eyes, the way Azula's hands are curled into a fist next to him, the golden light filtering into the room. _And suffering will be your teacher. _The flames. The scream. The way he had to look away.

And the bandages, the infirmary, Zuko's tears upon discovering his banishment. The hopeless task, the cruel assignment. _You may return. _Ozai, walking away. How he's changed from the boy he used to be. _If you find the Avatar. _His high, cruel laugh, the door slamming shut, and his own soothing words, telling Zuko it would be okay, that he would never be alone.

His own sacrifice, his own ship, given to Zuko. His volunteering to go with Zuko, Ozai's laughter. _He needs no one._

_He needs someone, Ozai. He needs someone to be there. Someone who will always be there. _His pause. _Unlike you._

The flames, shooting upward. Iroh's shot at something he knows deeply troubles Ozai, somewhere in that deep, black heart, even if he would rather die before admitting it. Ozai's eyebrows, shooting downward, his face, contorted and curled into a snarl. _You will show me respect! You forget that I am your Fire Lord! You have forgotten your place!_

_I have not forgotten my place, my brother. _His sadness, his bitter desire for one last parting shot. _You have forgotten yours. _How he walks away, without bowing. Ozai's cry of rage and his orders to bow to him. The way he doesn't listen, the way they sail away, Zuko's eye bandaged, and Iroh's heart heavy.

* * *

_I'm sorry, I just nag you because, well, ever since I lost my son . . . _the pain in his heart, the way Zuko won't look at him, the regret and memories flashing through his mind.

_Uncle, you don't have to say it._

_I think of you as my own._

Their hug, Zuko's departure, his eyes, grim and determined, his shoulders proud and square and tall, just like Lu Ten. How he feels that he's sending his other son off to war, how desperately he wants him to come back, how he will not make the same mistakes he did with Lu Ten. He will not shun him, he will not tell him what to do, what to think, what to feel. He will not forget to tell him that he loves him. Not as he's going off to war, going off to battle, going off to die.

* * *

The blind girl, sitting next to him, the beautiful sunset and landscape. The feeling of being lost, and of earth between his toes. Her confusion. Her denial that she needs other people.

_You sound like my nephew. Always thinking you need to do things on your own without anyone's support. There is nothing wrong with letting people who love you help you. _The own way he had rejected people who loved him and wanted to help him—the way he had thought he had needed to be independent to be strong—his own stubborn pride and the loss he had suffered.

Her smile. The way her eyes were unfocused, the way they stared blankly at the ground, the film over her green eyes. Her words. _So, where is your nephew? Is he lost?_

_Yes, a little bit. His life has recently changed and he's going through very difficult times. He is trying to figure out who he is and he went away._

Memories of his own searching, wandering through the Spirit World, trying to figure out who he himself was. How his life had changed, the tears and the blood, the utter emptiness in his heart, how difficult it had felt to breath after Lu Ten had departed. How he too had been lost, and how he wanted, more than anything, to tell Zuko that he too had been there, that _he understood._

* * *

The Avatar, wandering next to him, and the cave, lit by the flame in his hand. The rumble of the young boy's Earthbending, and his blue arrows, faintly illuminated by the flickering firelight.

_I met with this Guru who was supposed to help me master the avatar state, and control this great power. But to do it, I had to let go of someone I love, and I just couldn't. _

Images of power he could have had, of glory long gone, and of how close he was to making history, but of what he had to sacrifice to get there—his son, his love, his morals. If only he had been there for his son, listened to the signs, stopped the siege when they were losing—perfection within his hands, power within his reach—perhaps his son would still be with him today.

_Perfection and power are overrated. _A smile, and his looking to the ground. _I think you were very wise to choose happiness and love._

For if he had chosen that, perhaps Lu Ten would be here today.

* * *

The disappointment he feels when Zuko enters the catacombs, fists alight, shooting at the Avatar. No longer can he stand by his side—he knows then, that Zuko has to find his own path—on his own. The crashes, and the sweat, and the fear in the Avatar's eyes. The lightning, and the water falling down, and his shout that he _would hold them off!_ And the people, and the attacks, the ache and protest of his muscles as the Water Tribe girl zooms away, and the look in Zuko's eyes as they cuff him and knock him out. The overwhelming feeling of shame and blame and resignation—but oh, the disappointment.

* * *

The burning in his gut as he did sit-ups, the relish of pain as he felt his body turning hard, turning to iron. The shouts of the guards as they couldn't bend, the fear in their eyes, and the broken cage that couldn't hold him in any longer. The rush from the prison, the fresh air in his lungs, and how much the sunlight hurts for the first time in months.

* * *

His wrinkled hand as he writes the letter, the letter to the White Lotus. Grand Master. His hands, forming the swirling calligraphy, his fingers, signing his name, but his brain, still comprehending the fact that he is signing the orders to invade the city of his nightmares, the city of walls, the city he will never forget—but fighting on the opposite side of the line this time, fighting for justice and truth, to take the city _back_. The messenger hawk that takes away the orders, and the swollen and unfamiliar feeling of pride, pride he has long forgotten in his self-hate and loss, pride, beating away in his heart.

* * *

The green and the brown and the gold, the majestic palace of Ba Sing Se, but the bloody gash, the dripping wound on the façade—the Fire Nation flag, red and black against the natural earth. In another world, in another life, Iroh would have been the one to drape the flag over, to feel that pride in his heart as he looks at the fruits of his labors, but this is a different world and a different life, and no longer does he feel that twisted, malignant sense of accomplishment.

All he feels is disgust.

With a certain sense of finality, he points his finger to the wall, points to his destiny and his past and his old, long-forgotten desires. The power of the comet, surging through him. The fire, coursing through his veins and ravaging the flag, burning away until it is nothing, nothing at all, burning his own heritage so that Ba Sing Se can stand unmarred and beautiful once more.

* * *

The grand opening of his tea shop, and his friends, the young heroes of the world, gathered around him in Earth Kingdom garb. Mai, the gloomy girl his nephew is smitten with (personally, he thinks he deserved better, but who was he to judge?). Sokka, the young warrior, the proud warrior, with Suki, who can probably best him in a fight. Toph, the blind girl who he sometimes secretly wonders if she can see the best of all. Katara, the beautiful and passionate young woman who has a personality suited more to fire rather than ice. The Avatar, still a boy in his own right, but an old soul who has seen too many horrors, who has grown up too quickly.

And Zuko, his nephew. Truly happy, for the first time in his life. Among friends, among people who are his family, among people who truly care for him. The smile in his face and the crinkle in his cheeks, and the way his eyes light up at the way they laugh at his jokes, and make him feel welcome.

* * *

Mai, as she walks through the procession in the Fire Nation palace, her hair in the traditional wedding style, the flame hairpiece in her curls. Her pale complexion, her plumped lips, her red dress. Zuko, waiting for her, hair combed back, flame in his topknot, and love in his eyes.

The ceremony, the hand-fasting, the flames of all colors as the two are united as one couple, one unit, and the look of tenderness on Zuko's face as he holds her, his new wife. The memories of his own wedding, how life is a cyclical and funny thing, the pain in his chest as he wheezes with laughter at the table, and how he wants Zuko to have a better life than his own has been—full of love, without loss.

* * *

_Thank you, Iroh. _She stands a distance away from him, her hair black as night but her face growing tired and wrinkled. Her Fire Nation robes, her arms tucked into the sleeves. The first time he's seen her in fifteen years. _For taking care of my son, when he needed it the most. _

_How could I not, Ursa? He is dear to me. You've raised him well._

The tears that pour down her face at that statement. His rushed footsteps, to get to her, to help her. Them, falling to the ground together, huddled from the rain and the cold. His fingers that stroke her cheek, trying to soothe her, trying to warm her. _How could I raise him? I wasn't there for years and years. I failed him._

His hands, tightening around her shoulder. His rushed words and their closeness. _You did not fail him, Ursa. He never forgot you, never stopped caring about you, and you made him the man he is today. Don't you ever forget that._

Her tired eyes, her faltering smile.

_I won't forget._

_Thank you, Iroh._

* * *

_This is your grandfather._ The childish, chubby fingers reaching up and grabbing his beard. _His name is Iroh. _The belly laugh, the way the baby plays with the flame flickering between his fingers, the light in Mai's eyes, and how tall Zuko stands as he holds his daughter in his arms.

* * *

_Yes. _A tired smile, a crease in his face, a wrinkle in the bedspread, a warmth in his belly. The little things you notice when you're dying. _Perhaps it wasn't the greatest. Certainly not the happiest, certainly not the longest, certainly not the wisest or more productive life. But I've left a mark, and I know that you will too, my son. _His hands, gripping his nephew's, his son's. The tired way his joints protest when he tries to move. _They will remember me . . . for being happy. Won't they?_

_I know they will, Uncle_.

Perhaps that was what he needed to hear, he contemplated as he drifted away. He died with the scent of Ginseng tea wafting through the room, his nephew's hand in his, and the people who had lit up his life like candles surrounding him until the very end.

* * *

**Please review. So long, I'm sorry. But Iroh is just my favorite.**


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